


Deathly Debt

by avet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Master of Death, Mild Gore, Torture, Unhappy Ending, irregular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avet/pseuds/avet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter has a debt to settle with Death, and it involves one Morino Ibiki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Countdown Begins

_Long, long time ago.._

_Fate was written,_

_Then Life was created,_

_And Death came last._

_._

_._

Soon. It will end soon.

The hollowness, the numbness and the gaping hole in his once beating heart.

Oh how he missed it, this obliviousness, the abyss of his own making.

He saw the darkness creeping from the corner of his eye, rotting hands extending towards him, hissing and crooning his damnations. No soul is waiting for him beyond the flimsy barriers of life, and there is no one to greet him.

And he remembers the vain hope he once had when he desperately pleaded, ' _please let this be the last time, please let it be the end'_ , and the futile presumptions that he will soon cross to the afterlife, will find his family, his friends and oh _his children_.

But he knows now that it was hopeless. A white lie he whispered to himself to dull the agony of having his soul ripped again but never permitted its final destination.

Not this time.

He allowed himself a content sigh. The world was fading before his blurry sight, and he could no longer hear the soft keens of the man holding his broken body or the meaningless litanies he gasped on his clammy forehead, nor could he feel the trail of bitter tears falling on his slacking face.

What a shame it had to end, he doubts that he will find someone like this bastard anytime soon.

_._

_._

_._

_When Harry James Potter fell, he did so with ease._

_And when he opened his eyes, it was the dreadfully familiar figure of Death they met._

_"Again?" The voiceless figure stated more than they queried._

_His soul was damned, what hopes did he have for himself when he continuously committed the unforgivable, unthinkable and the most despicable?_

_And so he damned his soul once more. "Again."_

.

.

* * *

Dealing with Death is similar to dealing with a shrewd merchant; one has to to keep his excitement cautiously over the item, or it will be unattainable. If the price was too high, one has to fight tooth and nail to lower it even by measly percentages, just to have the satisfaction of besting them. And if by some foolish circumstances one managed to land himself into paying a debt, it is recommended to consider all the available options carefully, including whether one may fulfill it with full limbs attached or not.

Harry may have overlooked the last part, because when dealing with Death, the desired result would be the life of the other party and in this occasion _, his own life_.

However, Harry had the advantage of being the Master of Death, and that means endless _loans_ with infinite debts to be paid. The only obstacle being that with every debt to Death, cracks would mar the soul and mark it with eternal damnation, forever forbidden from entering the afterlife.

And Harry may have resisted at the beginning of his _enlightenment;_ then he was morally unyielding, high-strung after being abandoned on a dying world and hesitant to deny himself a reunion with his long lost ones.

But now, when morality and other humanly aspects became only part of a skin he would wear for a limited period, damnation was only a fleeting, distant concern.

One thing that Harry learnt in being the afterlife's unlawful avenger to pay off his debts is that the dead do hold mighty grudges, and they never budge.

But it is slightly difficult to off all of the dead's grudges, not to mention dangerous, so dear Death annually holds a kind of hit poll, and the one with the highest hits would be his next offering to Death.

Occasionally he doesn't have to kill them, altering their lives so immensely would do, for the worse of course.

His eyes gazed at the picture enthusiastically provided by one of Death's minions, and his target may have been appealing if not for his rugged head and face covered with old wounds and scars. But nowadays scars were treated as pieces of art rather than the clear mutilations and flaws they were, or so said a certain gossiping girl he overheard back in Death's 'hit-poll' chamber. Unoriginal, but none dared to say that to Death's not-face.

"Morino Ibiki," spat one recently dead man. "Sadist son of a bitch."

A bitter woman agreed. "Inhuman."

A hesitant voice cut through the surging grumbles, "they were in a war, there was no time for mercy."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he looked at the now hunched figure of a young boy.

"You, when did you die?" He asked him bluntly.

The boy flinched. "A-a year ago.."

A middle-aged man scolded him."Boy, it wasn't even our war, some of us are civilians who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but those damned Shinobi never cared, and Morino was more than happy to screw with our heads before realizing we had no information to offer."

Some shifted in discomfort while others murmured in agreement, but a sneering man with half his face burnt and where his left eye is supposed to be is an empty socket cut in. "He went easy on you because you were a civilian, old man, as for me as soon as he saw this -" he tapped his forehead which was covered by a headband with a metal plate, four diagonal lines engraved in it. "-he took his _sweet_ time."

Agitation rose and soon they began yelling and cursing, and some began helpfully telling gruesome details of their deaths whilst others bemoaned their unfinished cups of ramens, and some old man was angry over dying before reading the latest Icha Icha something. The point is that they had some grudges against one Morino Ibiki and Harry, being the nice person he is, has to do something about that.

Harry turned to face Death. "And what do you wish for this time?"

Death tilted their head, and he heard their eerie smile even if he couldn't see it. "A poorly written romance."

They waved their pale hand vaguely, and an apparition of his target appeared before them. "Morino Ibiki has to shatter; it does not matter what he did for whose sake, he sent a fairly good number of humans to my halls. It is becoming rather stifling."

Harry Potter bowed mockingly to the retreating figure, and his fingers unconsciously caressed the scars on Morino's photograph. He has a gut feeling that this task will not be as _pleasurable_ and amusing as the previous ones were...

.

.

_There are two types of drama: Comedy and Tragedy._

_Harry's life was more of a comedy than a tragedy. A bitter, dark and humorless kind of comedy._

_Or so Death once said._

_._

_Trēs_

_._

_Duo_

_._

_U_ _nus_

.

.

.

_**Finite** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is cross-posted on FFnet.


	2. Unwelcome Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no new update just lots of edits, check the first chapter

_"Hi, I'm_ _Ginevra_ _Weasley."_

_Bright, welcoming smile was offered to him, and its beauty once again dazzled him. "Harry." He whispered at her expectant look._

_She looks exactly like his own Ginny._

_"Would you like to join me, Harry?" A delicate hand waved to the vacant seat before her, and he could never deny her a request, "I would love to."_

_So he sat, hopelessly looking at her, eyes tracing her painfully familiar features; the lovely fiery locks, mesmerizing brown eyes, and the soft, slightly pale skin. A brow lifted when she noticed his blatant staring, and a small, warm smile was offered in return to her._

_._

_._

* * *

Harry Potter was less than pleased with his current situation. For one, the bloody lackey he ordered to bring him his possessions was late and secondly, he had no bloody idea where the bleeding fuck he is.

No, that's not it, he knows he is in the Fire Land of some realm, the place where his supposed target is in, but where exactly, he has no idea. He would, if the blithering idiot he made the mistake of trusting actually did his job and brought his trusty trunk, which contains a lot of questionable items for the purpose of fulfilling his mission without a hitch, but that's not happening for next twenty-four human hours.

He sighed, scratching his head and looking back at the vanishing portal, hoping against hope that it will miraculously appear once again, but that did not happen.

He raised his head and absently appreciated the blushing skies above the towering trees over him; Death's realm was far too dark and rotten for his tastes.

Pleasant view aside, he has a couple of hours before darkness descends, and finding a spot to crash would be fantastic. He will rest his newly _re_ made body and tomorrow he will see what surprises Death had for him.

The air began to cool before he could find a spot, and he didn't want to subject his now mortal body to the night's chills. Thus, he summoned a few branches laying on the ground a few spaces away from him, and arranged them over a small hole, waved his hand and in the blink of an eye a fire sprang up and began to crackle merrily.

He could simply light it on the air, leave it to dance till tomorrow's morning without dying, but he would rather not draw unwanted attention to himself - especially when he just arrived in this world and did not have the necessary information bar those of his mark - as traveling by Death's portal made him exhausted and diminished his usually endless magical core. He would have made a replenishing potion from the supplies he managed to gather over the various worlds, and be as good as he could get but well, Useless Minion N.2314 happened.

He laid back on the soft grass and took a deep breath, this world was refreshingly young, a few hundred years in its creation, and it was a stark difference from the usually suffocating, muddled and heavily polluted atmosphere of older worlds.

Young yes, but not bloodless, he thought as he gazed at the now starry sky with half-lidded eyes, as he could smell the familiar stench of blood-filled and burnt earth. This young world has certainly experienced action.

A few minutes later, a fledgling moon appeared in the sky.

"Bloody hell," he swore. "That's one nasty piece of work." This _moon_ was not a moon, it was a seal, and he wondered who is the _nutty_ who decided that sealing a giant _thing_ and turning it into a moon was a good idea.

 _Right_. Not his business.

He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, uncaring of the curious eyes of the forest's predators; they have keen noses, and they undoubtedly smelt death on him.

.

.

* * *

He woke at dawn to a soft weight on his chest, and he blinked drowsily at the large eyes of one brave squirrel. They held a silent staring contest to which he lost to the bloody squirrel before he shooed the animal and moved his stiff bones to sit up and face the slowly rising sun above him.

He relieved his bladder behind a bush, and then he sniffed the air and decided that it was moist enough for a body of water to exist nearby, and sure enough after a considerable distance from his earlier place he stumbled on a flowing clear river.

He washed his face before noticing his reflection on the water and raised a brow at the somehow delicate features; his once sharp, hollow almond eyes now rounded clear ones. The lines around his eyes lessened and his raised cheekbones leveled in an oval face, his lips slightly fuller and he grimaced at their redness. Overall, he was definitely not amused by Death's play, it was almost as if he was some noble offspring who never saw the sun at its finest hour, he thought dryly as he eyed the pale skin replacing his once slightly tanned, firm one.

No thanks to Death, he found out what his new personae and profession would be.

As he released what little magic he could spare without falling face first into the earth, he allowed it to cover the area a few miles away from him, and a slightly foreign, but tainted with Death's touch aura answered his magic with invisible threads. He followed the threads throughout the day before they stopped at an open, lush field were a traditional Japanese house was built. There was a small garden in front of the house, and he could see a small pond filled with colorful fishes beside it, it would have been an ideal, away from the masses kind of home, except for one glaring flaw. It was in an _open_ space, no fences, no gates and only a paper door beautifully designed with a pattern of exotic animals as a flimsy protection against Mother Nature's temper.

Bandits would be having the funniest, _easiest_ robbery of their lives if a normal person dared to live there.

He wonders how Death had the _gall_ to place a trigger-happy paranoid bastard in an open, unprotected area.

He sighed, no warding the bloody house until Useless Minion N.2314 finally found his brain and brought his luggage, _Soul Chocolates_ are a wonderful, instant replenishment to his magic and foul mood.

Harry entered the house, his house now he supposes, and took in the comfortable yet slightly outdated – in his opinion- lodge appraisingly, Death's tastes were often unorthodox that he was expecting the usual mishmash of ancient, tattered yet surprisingly strong equipment and the new, not-yet-invented bunch of materials. But it seems though that Death's idle henchmen took the care? pain? of actually furnishing the house with elegant, traditional and not overly expensive-looking theme. He placed his soiled shoes in the entrance area and began to explore.

The house had three rooms; a living room with tatami mats that had the most comfortable-looking couch in the worlds placed before an ancient-looking television, a small library tucked into a corner, and a beige colored kotatsu placed in the center of the room. The closest room was apparently his bedroom, which had a futon and not a _real_ bed, he felt for his back, he really did, and a wardrobe full of silky kimonos and a dozen of plain, cotton yukatas. There was also - _thank Circe_ \- a small number of seemingly modern clothes. Beside his room there is a washitsu room with only a low table, and its shoji doors open to the backyard.

In the back, there was a small space for a washing machine, and the pond - apparently a _koi pond_ \- had taken an L shape around the house, so the backyard was a good place for admiring it. Or fishing in it, really, it all depends on perspectives.

Beside the washitsu there is a small kitchen with wooden flooring, equipped with a table and a medium sized fridge, a stove and a microwave, and then at the end of the hallway a bathroom, which thankfully had a toilet and a tub, he didn't fancy taking a shit on a freshly dug hole in the ground.

He considered the sun's position, three more hours and the portal will open again, it would probably be preferable if he made something to satiate his now grueling stomach, he misses his immortal skin already, as he didn't have to shower, eat or get any bodily fluids out but now he stinks of sweat due his trek all day long following Death's lead, and a shower before food won without a doubt.

He adjusted the water's temperature to warm leaving it to fill the tub and went to ready something to wear. He chose a plain but comfortable white t-shirt with dark pants and got rid of his robes then went back to the bathroom, planning to either burn or hide his robes after he finished as they would no doubt be obviously foreign in their design, he wore them for his last outing in a bizarre but strangely magnificent world and his black robes, in their stitched patterns made of pure gold, multiple folds of layers that weighed almost nothing, and their nearly transparent texture were never out of place.

After he had taken an _extended,_ much-appreciated bath, he attempted to make himself a feast but the ingredients were limited, and so he made do with a peanut sandwich and a glass of water. A glance at the clock on his kitchen's wall revealed that mere minutes were left, so he inspected the small storage near the kitchen, and he was certain that it could hide two or three bodies without being too crowded.

He suddenly noticed the stillness around him.

The annoyingly cheerful birds that sang all around the clearing were now silent, and the soft breeze that rattled the fūrin on his window abruptly stopped, leaving it to sway for a few seconds before it too became immobile.

Then a thick, disgustingly familiar aura fell on his shoulders.

He took a step out of his house and watched the black hands of void force itself onto this world once more, and a figure stumbled from the ancient gate of Death. A sneer appeared on his face. "Late on the first day of work, what a _promising_ reaper we have here _."_

The young man in front of him began to sweat, and he hurriedly placated. "Forgive me, Master, Lord Maula held me up!"

" _Maula_ ," Harry snarled. "Of course it would be _him_ , what the bloody hell did he want?"

A trembling hand passed his trunk reverently, and he was nervously answered. "He said that there i-is something you must take, a g-gift, he recently f-finished it."

He took a calming breath, no killing a newly made reaper, even if it was an incompetent one. "That line worked on _one hundred and twenty_ reapers before you, did you ever _think_ what could Maula possibly offer me that I don't already have?"

"N-no, my Lord." A shamefaced reaper replied.

He waved the miserable excuse of reaper away, and he almost felt guilty when the young one dejectedly dragged his feet to the portal. _Almost_.

As it turns out, the _bloody_ Maula had something for him. A shell, a human shell to be precise and a cheerful _pink_ note was stuck in an inappropriate place told him to ' _Have Fun!_ '.

Well, he already found a use for his storage.. Right?

.

_._

* * *

**_Deathly Debt_ **

* * *

_When someone deals with Death, the ending result is his or her lives. It is a predictable outcome, and anyone who may expect an alternative way is more foolish than naïve. The Peverells were the best example; even though Death had tricked them, but have anyone ever thought why did Death ever felt the need to trick them to take their lives when everyone meets their ends sooner or later?_

_Death is peerless, but not invincible. Where Life creates, Fate decrees and Death takes all; it was a matter of individualism._

_The Peverells were not Fated to die at an exact time or place, they were merely marked as mortals, thus eventually bound to 'die'._

_Those with ambiguous destines often make the worst mistakes and the greatest changes in the worlds. Death happened upon those three 'unfated' brothers and saw two roads of endless greediness and instability, minuscule change in moments erasing what was fated, what was written._

_But then, there was one who had the possibility of greatness, but his fate will not be altered so immensely even if Death struck a deal with him. Yes, the youngest of the brothers, one Ignotus Peverell._

_And so Death had them unknowingly make an empty deal, and then took their lives as the payment._

_Harry once asked Death if they knew that the consequence of that empty deal was their own kind of_ _subservience_ _to him, but they did not answer._

_._

_._

* * *

As it happens, Harry woke up the next day with his back killing him, the blasted sun burning his eyes through the thin paper-doors, and his hair suddenly suffocating him. Apparently it grew overnight while he was _busy_ sleeping.

The last time he slept on a futon and had hair so long that it almost brushed the floor was some sixty years ago, in the Sengoku Jidai of Japan. At least he had some servants to help him back then. He definitely was not looking forward to washing and grooming it everyday by himself now, but thanks the Creator for the wonders of magic.

He gathered his long locks into a ponytail, with plans to cut it already on his mind, then stepped over to kneel over his trunk. It was an ancient one, with dull brown color and it was the most uninteresting trunk one could acquire, but most importantly it did not look like it carries all his otherworldly goods, was heavily warded to the point that he could throw it in a boiling lava, and it will return to him unscathed.

He opened the first drawer and stuck his hand until it touched a slippery wall; a hiss was all the warning he got before his fingers were chomped. The greedy creature continued to suck his blood for a whole minuet, and so he sat back on his heels and sighed.

" _C'mon sweetie, I haven't got all day for you_." The hissed words fell easily from his lips, and he was rewarded by a final tiny prick at his fingers. His beauty was certainly feeling charitable today; last time she rewarded him by swallowing his whole hand, regrowing the bones and skin once again was not a cheerful process at all.

Lizzy the lazy snake was a magical gem he found on an ancient world, some hundred years ago, and she became his companion since then. For a primary defense measure, she is certainly suitable.

His trunk was in obvious need of cleaning, despite the several enchantments he wove on it; some might have weakened due to the repeated process of transporting between the thin line of the dead realm and countless worlds with their varying pressures.

Harry sneezed as he went down the shaky stairs of the trunk; the amount of dust gathered in the first compartment was horrifying, and he swears by everything that is holy he dusted it _two months ago_!

Appalling sanitation aside, he needs his special stash of _Soul Chocolates –_ bless whoever created them _–_ and a bottomless bag for his venture in this foreign land.

After that, he did his morning hygiene and made a pitiful and lazy breakfast for himself, which did almost nothing to satiate his growling stomach but he promised himself a hearty lunch afterward.

* * *

As he stood and appraised the still body lying on the storage floor, he considered banishing the source of his headache to Death's realm, but decided against it as Death, being the grim and unfunny individual they were, would undoubtedly deem it an offense against their person by returning a gift they _allowed_ to pass through their gates.

So, what to do?

He nudged it with his foot, perhaps expecting it to move and swat it, but sadly it did not.

"A clone? Half-brother? Lover? No, that's unoriginal." He mentally went through what use could this _gift_ be to him, there were countless of possibilities, but unfortunately until he knew the script he cannot create the character.

He summoned the file – _he was a lazy sod who still relied on magic, and as Death always likes to remind him; once a wizard, always a wizard_ \- containing his target's information, and the file, made in Death's realm, cannot be seen or touched by any mortal, so discretion will not be needed in the material.

It was consistent of basic info such as name, birthdate and age, blood type and occupation; head of the Konoha Torture and Interrogation Force, a Tokubetsu Jōnin and he was firmly loyal to Konohagakure no Sato.

Another paper required his magical signature to reveal its contents, and a small vital suddenly appeared and he quickly snatched it before it fell, it was filled with blood, Morino's apparently, and was generously contributed by a Tanaka Soma, a Chūnin from Kirigakure, who happened to _bite_ Morino in a battle and went down carrying a mouthful of the bastard's blood.

A snort escaped him; his dead crowd went down _bloody_ and vengeful.

A throughout info revealed an alarming amount of weakness and dirty secrets he didn't need, but the most interesting thing is his little brother's part, the good soldier allowed a kin to desert despite his blind loyalty to his village? What a curious thing.

Or perhaps this Morino Ibiki was merely a hypocrite Shinobi.

"So, familial approach for this one." He mused, these kinds of methods were the most troublesome ones for him, and more exciting for Death, a poorly written romance indeed.

According to several dead people, Morino abhorred betrayal, and never did he express remorse over torturing guiltless ones. Harry will have to _remedy_ that.

The vital already made his tracking easier, and now he needed to set a meeting between them, a fairytale kind of encounter? Maybe. Considering that he is now in a land full of killers and – he recalled the countless, blank faced youngsters in this world's dead realm - child soldiers, he doubted that it was ideal.

What is the worst agony, the betrayal of loved ones, or the death of them?

Well, Harry would say both at one time.

So he looked at the human shell beneath him with a glint in his eyes, and decided that Maula was not a complete waste on the unnecessary air he breathes.

* * *

Harry contemplated his figure in the mirror. His groomed hair reaching past his behind to touch his calves, and he remembered an old voice reprimanding him, which world, which life, he cannot recall but the words: " _No real man would let his hair reach his buttocks!_ "

He sighed, possessing a hair to this extent length is nothing but asking for trouble, so he gathered the locks in a grip until he reached the small of his back, then he severed the remaining locks off.

A waterfall of dark hair suddenly buried his feet, he banished the mess away and decided that his hair was now in the non-feminine respectful area. He padded to the wardrobe and thoughtfully regarded the various outfits inside; he chose an unlined, dark green yukata and wore a hip-length light brown haori. He readied a pair of geta and tabi socks by the door, and returned to stand in front of the mirror.

The man before him was still familiar. The bitter, humorless edge and the faint tenseness around him were improper now, and foreign to the man he would become.

He relaxed his shoulders, released a soft breath and allowed a faint, amused smile on his lips, lessened the narrowness of his eyes and willed a slight twinkle to enter them. There, no Harry of Death's realm stood before him, but a different one did instead.

Now, time to make an identity for this immaculate man.

.

.

.

Leaves rose and danced on the caressing wind that swept the green forest, the curving paths that cut through it were slim and clearly hastily made, the sun bore down harshly despite the towering trees slightly subsiding its effects, this Fire Land was aptly named.

The still nameless man walked with a straight back, hands tucked into the sleeves of his yukata _,_ humming to an unfamiliar song to this land's residents. He noticed the approach of a living presence from a certain distance and watched in anticipation as an old, shabby dressed man walked leisurely on the uneven path until he noticed him. He offered a small smile for the old man's raised eyebrows, his watery eyes looking at the well-dressed man before him, and when his eyes finally met his own, he carefully entered his mind – _after all, old ones are quite fragile, a minor slip could utterly destroy them_ – and found decades worth of knowledge, he took hold of the spoken and written(1) language, one so similar to the Japanese he knew, but with few differences.

This old man's geography is not so informative, but he had at least the knowledge of the most relevant places, which serves him for the time being.

Hayashi Hachirou came from a farmer's family, since their grandfather's time they had lived in a small village called Minatari(2), south of the Land of Fire. It was a nondescript village, populated by mainly civilians and had a faltering economy, barely maintained by two merchant families, the occasional tourists and the majority of humble farmers.

There, a prefect role for him. Apparently there's this merchant family, the Toko's, who had two able sons, well known but rarely venture into shinobi villages, either due to prejudice or fear, he cares not, except for that they will have him as the middle, wayward son.

Tōkō Harī(3) of Minatari, a civilian in the Land of Fire.

The old man's eyes lit up with recognition, and a thin smile stretched his chapped lips. "My, Tōkō-san! What a pleasure to see you, off to Ra-chan's bazar?"

The newly named Harī nodded his head; a round market bustling with life, activity, and the voices of vendors bargaining with customers was playing behind the old man's eyes, his niece 'Ra-chan' is a common dealer with the Tōkō's merchandise.

The following hours were spent in careful procedure, implanting his identity in the total one hundred and seven villagers, a subtle suggestion, nonaggressive and pushed back into the memories, like the unimportant matters that exists but overlooked. He made sure to make it light for his supposed family, for a head-on implantation would result in suspicion and a throughout search that would eventually lead to the lack of an entire identity.

At noon, he had his bottomless bag filled with enough resources to last a month, he made sure to make it look like he was carrying several bags; putting all of his purchases in _one_ bag under the full awareness of his existence was nothing but an act of foolishness, and he had no desire to make himself invisible after all the trouble he went through today.

Finally, with a somewhat solid background, he was ready to head home and fill his stomach with unhealthy cuisine.

He will consider Morino Ibiki after that.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Due to his lifestyle, illiterateness wasn't an uncommon thing, so his written language will be unreliable, thus Harry will have to find another source with a firm grasp on the language, or he has to learn it himself.  
> 2\. Completely made up.  
> 3\. Yes, Harry Potter written separately on Google translator, none has ever praised me for originality.
> 
> Come harass me on [tumblr](http://lbearye.tumblr.com/)


	3. Fair Play

_Fiery red hair, aloof hazel eyes and a quip ready on the tip of his tongue, tends to come and go as he pleases._

_Maula, they call him. In reverence and awe, in fear and dread, and there was something terribly familiar about him; a question Harry knows the answer of, a puzzle he knows how to solve, a treasure waiting to be discovered, but he was never quite willing to unearth._

_"Death is fair," he once said. "Manipulative sometimes, but nevertheless fair."_

_There was something unnamed in his gaze, reflected on the rippling surface of Edír's fountain. He turned his head to look at Harry, who refused his invitation to sit on the damp ceramic, and there was something nostalgic in his features, a portrait of warm colors and falling leaves of autumn.._

_"-re did you go?" The lilting voice snapped him back to the present, and Harry found himself staring unabashedly at the amused face of Death's companion._

_"I find it disconcerting, how you blend so well wherever you go," Harry said bluntly and watched the amusement fade from the impostor's fair face._

_He wanted to make that self-assured look disappear, that mild, distant distaste to transform into something else. Rage maybe, or even hatred - that he could bear, could understand. Not this dispassionate revulsion, as if he was a filthy cretin unworthily graced by the presence of a mightier being._

_"Now, now Harry, that was quite rude," he tutted, false indignation turning his blood-red lips down, then rose smoothly from his seat to stand before him._

_"Had you lived countless of lives, witnessed thousands of years pass by, then you would not be the person you are now, not to mention…" he trailed off, raised his hand and gently caressed his cheek. "You will be quite skilled at being at home everywhere; in the humans worlds, from a mild peasant in the Sumerian's lands to a remarkable fellow in Alexander the Great's army, be the unknown fourteenth who sat on the Last Supper's table, or the fool who entertained the civilized gentry of King Henry the Eighth."_

_Harry slapped the hand away from his face, and watched as he turned back and stepped deeper into the garden, stood underneath the enormous golden trees and raised his palm just in time to catch a falling apple. And perhaps it was wrong to call it an apple, for while it may have the shape of it; its colors were vastly different._

_Maula sank his fangs into the gleaming fruit, and continued impishly, "Or if you would like to belong in Death's dreadful Halls, or edge of the universes where the exiled ones live, or even here, in Fate's Garden, where the fateless dwell, envisioning and creating the destinies."_

_Harry sneered. "You may call it blending, but I call it faking, and that is so far beneath me."_

_The pretender smiled indulgently at his curt statement, appeared right before him and patted his head. "Of course it is, Harry…" He tilted his head and asked innocently with a malicious glint in his familiar eyes. "Is it even Harry? I thought it was Hadrian."_

_Harry blinked._

_Hadri- Harry answered. "Of course it is Harry, I was never anything else."_

_Maula hummed. "Are you sure about that? I happen to know that there are many Henrys, Harolds, Hamishs and even the occasional Henriettas and Harrietts." He trailed off, waited for a response that Harry was not willing to give, then sighed in disappointment. "You are awfully uptight."_

_"Enough of this, I didn't come here to chitchat," ignoring his words, Harry moved closer to the being draped in silk and met his gaze directly. "Why don't you answer my question?"_

_Maula contemplated that for quite a long time, and just when Harry almost gave up and left, he spoke._

_"You do realize, my overly impatient friend, that you are the youngest being allowed entry into Fate's Garden." Said Maula, with a sweep of his hand to empathize their twilight hued surroundings. "Moreover, it has been two millenniums since you became aware of what your foolish actions in your mortal life caused." His lips twitched as if he was holding back a sneer. "And it's been only half that time since you graced Death's Halls. A blink of an eye to Death's measures."_

_"So tell me, O once savior, what could possibly make you think that you have exhausted the debts you renew in every last gasp of a mortal life?"_

_"I was promised an end..." Harry whispered, aware of the absurdity of what he just uttered._

_Profound pity twisted the fair face before him - and Harry hated him, hated the familiarity he embodied so flawlessly yet never truly revealed - and he crooned: "Oh Harry, foolish, terribly naïve Harry. There's no such thing as an end to a Master of Death."_

_Time was a foreign concept in the Garden of Fate, and yet Harry felt its ancient weightiness resonate deep within his immortal bones once again._

_His silence promoted Maula to continue, and later on, Harry will come to curse him for shedding the feeble veil Harry secured against the inevitable truth._

_"Know that there's an end to everything, just like there's a beginning to them. But you, who had been tempted by Death, and bond yourself not only to your universe's personification of death but the entire concept of it, your end is far, way far than my own."_

_"Have you had more patience, it would have ended sooner, with your own Death's end. But no such thing will happen, and you, Harry Potter of Ńiy's worlds, will be the last one swallowed in the eternal Void."_

_And thus declared Death's companion, crushing any hopes the once mortal Harry James Potter harbored about his supposed and inevitable passage to the afterlife._

* * *

.

The clattering of dishes roused him from a light dose, and Harī blinked blearily at the papers fluttering in front of him, he swatted one that almost smacked his face and with a stifled yawn summoned the rest lest the incoming breeze jumble them.

The heady scent caused by his still lit kiseru, and the nose-tickling, rich smell of wet grass with the occasional soft chirps from the nearby birds had lulled him to a brief nap on the stiff flooring in his backyard. He upturned his well-crafted pipe on the pot, stuffed it with koiki and then snapped his fingers for a tiny fire that instantly swallowed the finely shredded tobacco.

He softly recited a poem he heard once, as his thoughts went back to the papers he was rifling through before his brief period of unconsciousness.

Konoha, the residence of a certain tokubetsu jōnin _,_ was about six hours away from his current lodge, and while he may have an identity now, there is still a glaring flaw; he has no identification papers to prove it. It was something easily fixed if he had an example of this world's equivalent of IDs, but in his rush to plant himself in the citizens' minds he kind of forgot about that.

To be frank, he was feeling a little lazy too. No way in hell he is returning to that crowded, stinking village simply to get an idea of how they documented their fleeting existence.

He exhaled a rounded wisp of smoke; there was also the matter of their meeting, and according to what he managed to learn about Morino Ibiki, it was no easy job, and he didn't trust Fate enough to leave it to her. But Harry, being the most talented – and sought after – actor in the worlds had the benefit of being a manipulative little shit who could screw with millions of fates simply to create a little play to satisfy the dead, and most importantly; Death.

Tōkō Harī reluctantly dragged himself up from his awkward position, and gingerly stepped over the diligent brush cleaning the mess after him, it's _real_ comfortable to lie directly on stiff floors, now he seriously can't feel his backside.

.

.

.

"Next is hair," he muttered to himself as he stood over a bubbling, giant cauldron with a certain motionless shell floating in it, he pulled a strand of his hair and threw it in the puke tinted mix. He waved his hand over the giant cauldron and drew back to avoid its contents being spat at him as his equipment usually had this nasty habit of exploding in his face.

He was no hocus pocus doer, who pulled rabbits from hidden pockets and tricked kids with candies to devour them, but there were certain times when he felt downright ridiculous, and right now being one of these times.

Silly and wonky magics aside, he has a clone to create, so less thinking, more working.

.

.

Harī was extremely proud of the stark-naked carbon copy of himself standing erect in front of him.

Not in a disturbing way, but more of a paternal wa-

_Right, never mind._

Nevertheless, Harī spent roughly two hours, with less three strands of hair and one liter of blood, a scrap of skin, a wisp of his magical core and _voila!_ A perfect clone of himself.

Mindless, mind you, but that can be easily fixed with a favorite curse of his, one old-styled _Imperius_.

After a brief moment of squinting at the clone, he ordered it to change its hair color and length, grow a few centimeters taller and make its girth slightly broader then his own he nodded in satisfaction, its default appearance would be his current one, but until the right moment it will be a completely different person.

"Well, off you go!" He shooed the clone off to fulfill its purpose, and began the tedious task of cleaning the mess he made in his trunk's third compartment, and what he wouldn't give for a self-cleaning trunk, as the insufficient charms he places regularly on his trunk fall as soon as he crosses from the dead realm to the living one.

.

.

* * *

" _MIDORI!_ "

An agonized scream tore through the damp room, and sad music began to play in the background.

Harī sighed and sniffled, even if he knew from the initial five minutes that the heroine's daughter would die, it was still heartbreaking to watch. The mother began to moan brokenly as she knelt on the wet ground with the harsh rain plastering her hair to her pale face, sobbing incoherently as she clutched her daughter's corpse to her chest.

The ancient telly was switched on a drama channel - the only one besides two news channels and a bizarre one catering to ninja audience, which involved way too much propagandas - the quality was horrible, the volume was crackling every second and the script overused, but he was too bored to complain.

Did he mention that this world's television required a strange battery to work? He was perplexed over the containers he found in the storage, his limited knowledge of the language helped him to translate the weird squiggles on the maroon dyed containers to 'electricity'. Apparently technology was restricted, and there won't be any advanced holograms, or a sleek 3D with Wi-Fi, 85" Smart TV here anytime soon.

He turned off the sorry excuse of a television and laid back on the awfully comfy couch, and idly wondered how people paid their bills, surely those so called 'electricity' thingies aren't free.

Which leads him to another problem, monetary resources.

While Harī had transfigured a small portion of rocks to match the current currency - which had the same name of one he used some seventy odd years, but definitely dissimilar in shape - earlier today, they cannot be a reliable source for the unknown period he will spend in this world.

Not to mention that it would be useful for only a limited time before the enchantment wears off and return to their original state, and that's a bad thing.

A capital, big bad thing.

Harī sighed; he hated foreign worlds, why can't the entire universes adopt one culture, language, and currency? It would have made things far easier for him.

He dragged himself up from the couch and surveyed the lounge once more. Perhaps it would be better if he 'personalized' the whole house? While Death's henchmen made it livable, it was still… sterile, and someone who had supposedly lived here for a certain time would have left inconsequential trails; dirty socks thrown under the couch, pictures on the shelves, varied books and the occasional magazines with questionable contents…

There, perfect.

After he had finished, Harī glanced at the clock and saw that it was approaching dusk. He can already feel the _stirring_.

Quiet, unheard sounds by mere mortals began to creep with the soft breeze, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend that he was in the Pales, the point between the afterlife and Death's gates.

He snatched the velvet scarf on the door's hook, wrapped it around his neck and stepped out to regard the setting sun.

Eventually, when night entirely fell, banished the blues and purples of the retiring day, the world's unquiet dead rose and hailed him.

.

.

* * *

The next time he woke up was definitely better, as he had charmed the futon to be far stuffier than it should be while appearing as atheistically uncomfortable as it could get, and decided that it was nigh time he visited Konoha.

Once he finished his morning routine and consumed his hastily made breakfast, he wore a loose and practical yukata and the sturdiest geta he could find in the closet, grabbed a medium sized bag and filled it with inconsequential, everyday travel items, and left his abode at the earliest hour with only a hazy memory of where he should go. But it shouldn't be a problem; after all, there are plenty of travelers out there, right?

.

.

.

Or not.

He huffed in annoyance as he stopped before a tree he swore that he just passed it. No, he _had_ passed it, there's the mark he left when he non-too gently slapped a massive fly and it stuck to the tree's bark.

And after five whole hours of blindly trekking through wild and surprisingly untouched nature, he began to lose his patience, cool temperature and rationality. Not to mention the beginning of a guilty hunch, he wanted to prove to himself that he's not some lazy ass bastard who always relied on magic. Well, _he is_ , but sometimes it's better to stretch one's legs around.

He stuck his hand in his small bag and retrieved the vital containing Morino's blood, raised it to touch his cool lips and whispered: " _Sequor_." Thin wisps of dark red steam rose from the vial, hovered slightly above him then slowly turned east.

"Hah! Knew it was over there!" He sputtered in outrage, and thanked every god that the wisp didn't have any facial expressions; he can feel the judgment without them just fine.

After a brief trek (and multiple misuses of Apparition) through the no longer tricky forest, he began to sense a large quantity of life forms several miles away.

Harī briefly entertained the thought of sneaking into Konohagakure unseen to avoid complications of (admittedly necessary) paperwork, but quickly dismissed the idea.

He wanted – or rather needed - to be noticed.

So he dusted off his yukata, sprayed a little sand on his suspiciously clean tabi and took off.

.

.

Huge and giant summed up the gates up ahead of him, with two painted squiggles – he was sure that they were the same Japanese letters he once knew, but somehow he cannot read them – on each faded green colored door. He noted an unfamiliar force over the walls, and reckoned that it must be the energy – _chakra_ \- mortals in this realm use, either enforcing the gates or protecting them. He could see residences of varying colors, nature taking form as trees of average height inside the village and the towering mountain looming behind.

He stepped through the gates; the hustle of the village's inhabitants was a low thrum, overlapping the soft chirps of the air creatures flying overhead. On the gates' left side there was something resembling a checkpoint, overseen by two individuals, one had a combed brown hair covering his right eye and wore a navy blue bandana, the familiar headband he saw many dead wear was present as well. They informed him that it was viewed as respect to their village and its peers, though he never understood its practicality, they were dead for Ra's sake, respect is pointless in the underworld, though he supposed that old habits die hard, even in death.

The other man – who was gazing dully at the distance - possessed a black spiky hair and had a strip of bandage running across the bridge of his nose, Harī was unsure if the thing stuck to his chin was merely a marking of some sort or a pathetic attempt at sporting a goatee, he really hoped it was the former.

The first – attentive - man gave him a restrained smile and greeted him. "Good afternoon, sir, please show me your papers." Fortunately he was looking at him head-on, and so he gave a passive overlook of his mind to grasp the information he desired.

It turns out that their documentation papers are really just that, papers. Stamped ones, but nevertheless papers, what a backwater civilization.

He smiled benignly, stuck his hand into the bag he was carrying, transformed a note into the needed papers, and gave it to the oblivious man. The man - Kamizuki Izumo – nodded in satisfaction after examining the papers and returned them with a sincere smile. "Welcome to Konohagakure, Tōkō-san."

"Thank you, shinobi-san."

.

.

* * *

Human traffic on the grounds, and human traffic on the rooftops.

That sentence could very well sum up what this village was about at first; the fact that they never considered paving their streets was a shame.

The construction was something else, he could see no pattern in the way every home was built, the plumbing was visible and almost all the residences were of a hideous tint and traditional Japanese design at the top, then suddenly forming a somehow modern design at the bottom. There were also some modern themes in the externally fitted AC units outside several buildings, convenience stores available in every corner, CCTV surveillance systems in some supposedly high-end stores and whatnot.

What a bizarre culture.

After several hours of exploring, Harī could say that he knew the vague outline of this village, not that he ventured anywhere deep, and there were the occasional places were he was not so subtly steered from, he spotted a tail that was half-heartedly following him, not entirely interested in hiding themselves, or they were overly confident that he would not notice them.

And perhaps if Harī was truly as he was supposed to be, then he would not have detected anything amiss. He was not overly annoyed at the shadow at first, merely amused, but when they began to, dare he say get bored, and play with their chakra, thus distracting him from his seemingly aimless wandering, he decided to take a break.

Through the discreet probing of unsuspecting civilians' minds, he had a solid understanding of the language, it _was_ Japanese, but not quite, and found out that the prefect spot for unarranged dates is in the Hot Springs district.

Tucked far in the corner of the village, right beside the imposing mountain, and with the water heated throughout the entire district, which was made up of onsen and specialty stores, it was the perfect tourist attraction.

He made a beeline for a shop with a cheerful sign proclaiming it 'Amaiguriama', and after he told his order to the perky assistant behind the counter, he took a table right beside the door to gaze at the scene of the bustling street outside.

His shadow was hovering right above the establishment, and he sent a gentle suggestion to their direction: _come down, you are bored and curious, what's the harm of satisfying it?_

They stilled for a brief moment, and then hesitantly dropped right in front of the door.

The man that entered the shop was unremarkable, with dull brown hair and brown eyes. He wore the standard attire for Konoha shinobi which consists of a blue shirt with swirl patterns on the biceps, along with matching colored pants over a green flak jacket which also had a red swirl on the back, pockets on the chest area, and lastly wrapped bandages around his legs.

His stalker wore his false skin comfortably. Though Harī wondered if it was truly a skin, or merely an illusion?

He passed by his table and called for the assistant's attention, and the air around him wavered slightly.

Illusion, Harī concluded.

His charmingly arranged order arrived, a warm cup of green tea and two plates full of appetizing sweets; sticks of dango with dripping sauce, and colorful assortment of daifuku and manjū.

His hands were cradling the porcelain cup of tea when his eyes 'accidentally' fell on the approaching figure's, he gave a polite smile and turned to sip his tea with visible contentment.

"May I?" His eyes snapped up at the towering shinobi, and he straightened when he noted the significant look the other gave the vacant seat before him.

"Oh- please, of course!" He said hurriedly, with a warm smile directed towards the shinobi.

His stalker nodded his thanks and sat at his table, carrying only a plate of dango.

Harī put his cup down and took a stick of dango, taking care to not make the sauce drip on his hem, and bit gently on the soft balls one after another, savoring each one with a hum of appreciation. He felt the unsubtle gaze of his table's companion, but he ignored it and continued the consumption of the pleasant desserts leisurely.

"Are you a tourist?" The blunt enquiry 'startled' him from his idle observation of the busy crowd outdoors, and when Harī turned to look questioningly at him he hurried to explain. "I don't remember seeing you before.." He trailed off, seemingly just realizing how strange that sounded.

Harī gave a soft laugh, and with twinkling eyes tracing the 'blush' that appeared high on the shinobi cheekbones, he answered. "Yes, I just arrived in Konoha."

"Ah.." He looked awkward, and if Harī had not gazed into his eyes then he might have believed his superb performance.

Hijiri Shimon is a chūnin affiliated with Konoha's Torture and Interrogation force, and currently on a medical leave. He was getting antsy with no actions for a whole month and so he accepted the mandatory three-day surveillance of first-time civilian visitors within Konoha.

Harī could almost hear Fate's peals of laughter; she was the main orchestrator of such _coincidences_.

He allowed his fingers to caress the rim of his cup. "Are you in habit of approaching unfamiliar strangers then, shinobi-san?" Harī said in humor.

"Sometimes, it comes with the job," replied the mortal honestly. "And it's Sanou Daiki."

"A pleasure to meet you, Sanou-san." Said Harī with barely hidden amusement, "I'm Tōkō Harī."

The next fifty-two minutes passed with passively probing questions, amateurish flirting and unhealthy dose of sugary confections.

"Hey lovebirds, we're closing!" They 'started' at the sudden shout, and both turned with faintly reddened cheeks to look at the gleeful shop assistant, Harī sported an appearance of dim mortification as he hastily paid his bill, muttering a faint "My apologizes," while doing so.

"Let me walk you back," said the shinobi clumsily afterwards, but Harī shook his head and opened his mouth to object when he hurriedly said, "I insist."

Harī huffed with amusement and stated, "So persistent," to which the man smiled self-consciously but did not deny.

The sun has long been set when they reached Harī's temporary residence, which was in an area blandly dubbed 'Guest Apartments', closest to the gates and set aside for foreign shinobi and visitors.

He turned to face his companion for two hours after he unlocked his apartment, and displayed a look of uncertainty. "Good night, Sanou-san. Thank you for your company, I really enjoyed it.."

"Thanks are unneeded. I enjoyed it as well," he shook his head truthfully, and gazed at Harī thoughtfully. "Say, are you free tomorrow night?"

Harī blinked at the sudden question. "I…think so?"

"Then what do you say about meeting me in Shushuya? They serve decent sake and yakitori.."

He trailed off, and Harī hurried to say, "Of course, but where—"

"Oh, it's near the shopping district. I can come and.. take you there?" He coughed, hand rubbing the back of his neck and eyes firmly glued to the ground.

Poor little Shimon, he was undoubtedly mortified and alarmed at his actions, but it was not his fault. He simply had no resistance to the nudge Harī gave his heart when he laid his eyes on him, and now he believes he is captivated by the attractive and mild-mannered civilian Tōkō Harī.

And normally Harī would not have resorted to such means impulsively, but he wanted to have a solid 'connection' to one of Morino Ibiki's subordinates.

Even if it was a brief one..

"It's a date," he granted sweetly, and watched with concealed boredom as the murderous mortal stammered and stuttered his agreement.

Ah, he wanted to finish this chore quickly… He fancied a visit to the outer realms of Niý's. They say that a new world had emerged, and it was extremely _fascinating_.

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me bout what you think :)  
> and here's my [tumblr](http://lbearye.tumblr.com/) if you wanna drop by


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